


You'll know it when you see it

by Anonymous



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gifts, Hurt Merlin, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4887457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-canon. When Harry and Merlin need to take shelter after a rough mission, Merlin takes Harry to his old childhood home, where Harry realises that maybe Merlin is so contained and tidy because he never had that much to begin with. Now, though, he’s got Harry and Kingsman to look after him. Basically fluff and comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll know it when you see it

“Safe house?” asked Harry, panting, as he and Merlin ran through driving snow. It was that fucking icy sort, the sort that razors out your lungs and finds any chinks in your clothing to worm its way into. “You know a fucking _safe house_ in this arse end of nowhere?” 

“I grew up in this arse end of nowhere,” Merlin replied, breathing just as hard, clutching at his side. “Inherited a house. We’ve never needed it, but I’ve been turning it into a long-term base. Started a while back.” 

“Fucking hell,” said Harry, because this was both a gift to his innate curiosity and a gift to them in that it was a place they could lay low. “People can’t connect it to your old identity?” 

“Unlikely,” said Merlin, dismissively. “Everyone I ever knew thinks I’m long gone, and they never thought much of me in the first place.” He slowed. “And if I don’t stop soon, I’m going to collapse on you.” 

“How bad is it?” 

“Bad enough.” 

“Merlin.” 

“I used Morgana’s medical scanner on it. It’s not life-threatening.” He stopped running. “It’s just really fucking painful. Slow down, Harry.” 

Harry slowed, offering Merlin a shoulder to lean on. Merlin shrugged him off. 

“Which way?” 

“Up here.” He turned back, and swore. “I’m leaving a trail.” 

In the darkness and the snow, the spatters of blood looked almost black; they were vanishing fast under the heavy fall. Harry’s stomach dropped sharply. 

“ _How_ bad is it?” he asked. 

“We’re going to have to cover our tracks,” said Merlin, ignoring him. “We can double back…” 

“It’s coming down so hard that track will be under five feet of snow tomorrow morning, and we’ll be in a Kingsman safe house, so you can just lock the doors and blow up anyone who gets within twenty feet of the gate,” said Harry, pulling off his scarf, handing it to Merlin to pad the wound further. At least it would stop the drips. “You need to get indoors, and I need to apply first aid.” 

“I don’t—“ Merlin began. 

Harry took him by the shoulders. “I need you to show me where this fucking safe house is. If you still think we’ll need to cover the tracks, I’ll go out after, but if you go down now, I won’t find it.” 

Not strictly true. Morgana was only a glasses-call away, and she’d guide him, but she’d have trouble on visuals in this whiteout, and sometimes awful weather fucked with the signal. But Merlin was far enough gone with exhaustion and pain that he believed Harry — Harry could see he wasn’t going to query. 

“All right,” he said, reaching up to put a bloodied hand over Harry’s. “It’s this way.” 

They struggled through the snow a while longer, until they heard the rumble of a snowplough — a fucking snowplough — and Merlin dragged Harry into a graveyard, both of them crouching low behind headstones as the plough passed. People passed, too, their feet crump-crumping on the fresh snow, and Harry felt damp all over, snow turning to water and soaking into his cuffs, down his neck, in his hair. He kept his gun at the ready, sneaking looks at Merlin, who had his weapon out, but whose posture conveyed complete misery. 

They were lucky. No-one came into the graveyard; Merlin’s route along the hedges had meant that their footprints were lost in shadow and snow, and the lights and sound soon passed. Harry eventually dusted the snow off his jacket, and crept to Merlin’s side. 

It was dark, but everything had that snowy reflectiveness; he could see well enough to pull Merlin to his feet, to take the man’s weight. The bleeding had slowed; although Harry’s scarf was probably past saving, Merlin wasn’t leaking hot blood with every step anymore. 

“This way,” said Merlin, pointing. 

They limped along the fence line, under the dramatic boughs of the unkempt hedge, and out through to a large house. It was a manse — the old church it belonged to was boarded up, but the manse was still standing, windows lit, but still looking as if it had been transplanted straight from the mind of Stephen King. 

“Oh god,” said Harry, looking at the stone walls. “You did not grow up here. You absolutely did not.” 

“I did,” said Merlin, quietly, so quiet it was nearly a whisper. “Look, I know it’s not — what you’re used to. But it’s better than nothing. At least Morgana’s put the lights on for us.” 

The building was cold and unforgiving — it had clearly been built to remind the inhabitants of the pain and suffering in the world by inflicting it upon them, too. 

“Let’s see it, then,” said Harry, making his way to the door, leaning up against the retina scanner that all Kingsman safe houses had. The door unlatched with a click, and both of them staggering inside. Morgana had also remotely turned on the heating; Harry’s fingers ached with the transition to indoors. 

“Fuck me,” said Merlin, shutting the door behind him. “That was so much harder than it should’ve been.” He grinned grimly, and pulled papers and a small vial of liquid out of his front pocket. “Got the formula, though.” 

“Got shot, too,” said Harry.

“Fuck you,” said Merlin, pulling off his ruined coat, and peeling himself out of his jumper and thermals underneath. The jumper and coat had been dark, so the wound hadn’t really shown up, but when he got down to thermals, there was a huge rusty stain spreading from Merlin’s side. “Come here and scan it properly.” 

Harry obeyed, taking the hand-held scanner — which looked a lot like a barcode reader — and running it over the injury. The wound was clean, at least — the bullet had gone in and out along Merlin’s hip, and the tracer scanner confirmed that there was no serious internal injury. Merlin groaned. 

“I’m out of stimpacks,” he said. “There should be some in the cupboard.” 

“You don’t need a stimpack,” said Harry. “You need some pills, some fluids, and an airlift back home.” 

“No airlift’s going to make it tonight,” said Merlin, sitting down heavily. “Harry, I hate to do this to you, but can you find some painkillers? I don’t think I’m going to be helping much tonight.” 

The house was clean and quiet, stocked as an emergency base. Harry called in to Central for assistance in locating what he’d need, and to his relief, got Morgana. 

“Thank fuck,” she said, when he confirmed their location. “Dress that wound as best you can, and then get Tom into a warm shower. He could drop now that he’s out of danger. I want you to keep an eye on him with the scanner — you may need to give him IV fluids if he refuses to rehydrate like a normal person.” 

Harry was able to get gel packs and bandages to dress the wound with, feeding Merlin antibiotics and painkillers — enough for him to get under the shower. He used a scratchy towel to dry Merlin off, pleased that the man seemed to be a lot warmer than he had been, and he helped Merlin into Kingsman-issue pyjamas. Merlin didn’t complain; he just sat quietly while Harry re-made the bed in the master bedroom with sheets fresh from the cupboard, intending to put him in it. 

“You take this bed. I’ll bunk down in my old room, if you’re amenable to making it up,” said Merlin, pale and quiet. He really wasn’t thinking clearly, thought Harry — the painkillers? Dehydration? Cold? Shit, he was going to have to stick a drip in him. 

“Show me,” said Harry, who knew he should probably be more ashamed about his avaricious curiosity when it came to Merlin’s private life, especially when there were _so_ many more important things to worry about. 

“This way.” Merlin stumbled; there was no other word for it. Harry didn’t take his arm, because he knew Merlin might hit him, but he did keep close to the man, just in case he fell. 

Merlin’s old room was singularly disappointing — Harry didn’t know what he’d been hoping for, but it wasn’t _this_. 

“Where’s your things?” asked Harry, before his brain-to-mouth filter kicked in. “What did little Merlin play with? Or did he play with himself?” 

Merlin looked momentarily confused. “My things are all on the shelf or in the cupboard,” he said. 

“This is it?” Harry asked, opening the cupboard. 

“Everything I left when I went to uni. I never cleared it. I probably should’ve.” 

Harry knew for a fact that Merlin had shown up at university with a suitcase of somewhat dated clothes, a computer he’d built himself out of rubbish parts, and four paperback novels. He’d been the only mildly bearable one in their share house, really, and that’s because he cooked and cleaned and kept his shit out of the common areas. Harry had always assumed that Merlin had been wise to the realities of share housing, and left all of his good shit at home. 

So it was with some surprise that he surveyed Merlin’s childhood bedroom. The walls were bare, the curtains sort of stripy and brown. The duvet was plain blue. And that was… it, really. There was a shelf on the wall, which held a jam jar full of buttons, a trophy, and a decorated bible. In the cupboard, because of course he was going to look, there were some old moth-eaten jeans and jumpers. He’d never really considered the fact that Merlin might be so tidy because he owned nothing to make a mess with. 

“You can’t be serious,” said Harry. “I was looking forward to seeing if you had any valuable toys from your infancy in the 1930s.” 

“Funny,” said Merlin, and he grabbed the doorframe. “Galahad…Harry. I think I — I need —“ He swallowed. “Harry, stop being an arse and get over here.” 

“Tom,” said Harry, striding to him, taking his weight. “Fuck; you’re not going to do anything awful like die on me, are you?” 

“Don’t think so,” said Merlin, but he was freezing cold, trembling slightly. “The tracer’d be having a fit if—“ 

Harry and Merlin’s glasses buzzed. “What the hell are you doing?” Morgana’s voice snapped. “Why is Merlin still up? What part of get yourself into a warm bed and hold tight until morning didn’t you understand, Tom?” Her voice softened. “Look, the weather’s too shitty to get up there for you right now, but if it doesn’t clear, I’ll go get a snowplough and drive up myself, all right?” 

“Are we all right to go out into town?” Harry asked. “If he worsens, we’ll need a doctor.” 

“Don’t risk it,” said Morgana. “The whole fucking town’s being paid by that factory — we’ve got no idea how many people know they’re making chemical weapons, but chances are they’ve got people looking for you wherever you go. Get him into bed.” 

“Can we at least get a pizza delivered?” Harry knew he sounded petulant, but he didn’t care. 

“There’s pizza in the freezer,” she snapped. “I have a full inventory of supplies in that house, and you know how to work an oven. Get him into bed and get him warm, Galahad; that’s an order. You’re not to feed him pizza unless you’ve also got warm saline going into him.” 

“I’m fine,” said Merlin, resting his forehead against Harry’s shoulder. 

“Come on,” said Harry. “This room’s depressing. Let’s get you back to the bed that’s actually made.” 

He walked Merlin down the corridor, helping him into bed, tucking him in tight. He hooked up the saline from the ridiculously complicated-looking IV apparatus, and it was probably testament to how shitty Merlin was feeling that he didn’t complain, just closed his eyes. 

“Leave his glasses beside the bed,” said Morgana. “You go and have a shower and that pizza; I’ll keep an eye on him.” 

Harry was eminently grateful to her, even if she was effectively imprisoning them in here — he showered, the hot water chasing the last of the icy chill out of his bones, luxuriating in the warm Kingsman pyjamas, robe and slippers that were left for just this sort of event. Surround a wounded man with familiar comforts, and he’ll come back to equilibrium faster. 

There was pizza and garlic bread in the freezer, and two unopened bottles of coke in the fridge. Cheap scotch in the cupboard, so Harry made himself a scotch and coke, not wanting the antifreeze burn of the shitty scotch, but needing the warm fuzz of the alcohol. He realised belatedly that he should have sent copies of the data back to Central, but when he went to do it, he discovered that Merlin had already done it while they were cowering behind headstones in the adjacent cemetery. Smiling, Harry stretched. 

“Get some rest,” said Morgana, through his glasses. “Tom’s back to something approaching a normal temperature, and you’re both exhausted. This place is a fortress, and besides, the weather’s so shitty that it looks like the town’s going to be snowed in for a week.” 

“A week?” asked Harry. 

“Don’t fret,” she said. “There should be something in the garage that will get you through it tomorrow morning.” 

“There’s going to be a bunch of pissed off Noregard executives looking for us, too,” said Harry. 

“Are you really saying you can’t take care of them?” She sounded amused. “Go and get some sleep, my boy.” 

And ugh, there was the choice of Merlin’s shitty old bedroom, or sharing the master with the man. Harry yawned, made his decision, and made his way into the master bedroom. The drip was quietly humming to itself, and Merlin was curled up on his side, only taking up half the bed. 

He’d left space for Harry. Harry smiled, removing the drip, getting into bed with him, leaning over to turn off the lamp and then wrapping an arm loosely over him. They’d shared a bed before — it wasn’t weird when it was him and Tom, and he was far too tired to schlep down the corridor and make the bed in that creepy old room. 

“Harry?” Merlin sounded like he was still mostly asleep. 

“Yes?” asked Harry. 

“Good,” said Merlin, putting a hand over Harry’s as if to keep him there. 

“Indeed,” whispered Harry, tucking them a bit closer together, and surrendering to the arms of Morpheus. 

_____________

 

It was not a restful sleep. Merlin woke three or four times during the night; despite the first aid, it looked like he was developing an infection, and he was horribly confused the third time he woke, only settling when Harry murmured silly things to him and hugged him even closer. 

Morning saw Merlin wincing and shuffling out of bed for the loo, sitting grimly at the breakfast table while Harry made toast from the rather pallid frozen bread he’d left defrosting last night. The house was snow-quiet, like it was wrapped in a blanket, the only sounds between them their breathing and the hum of the heating system. Right up until the lights ticked, flickered, and died. 

“Shit,” said Harry. “Noregard?” 

“Don’t know,” said Merlin. “There’s a backup generator if it’s the mains. Might just be the fuses, though.” 

“You didn’t upgrade the fuse box when you upgraded this place?” 

“I haven’t finished the upgrade,” said Merlin. “It was next on the list, along with my old room. It’s a bigger job than it looks; I prioritised the remote access.” 

Harry sighed. “We need to check.” 

The house was surprisingly dark, for all that it was morning; slanted lines of light peered in through the windows, but they didn’t illuminate the place. It looked all the more horrible for it. 

Merlin got to his feet, wincing. “I’ll get it,” he said. “You cover me.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Harry. “Finish your toast so that you can have some more painkillers.” 

“And what, you can find the fusebox?” 

“I can bloody well work it out. Don’t you doubt me, just because it’s electrics.” 

“And if it _is_ people working for our competition?” 

“You’ll be covering me.” 

The wind was an Arctic blast when he opened the door; there was no way it was anything other than a fuses problem, because one would have to be a stupid bloody bastard to try to get out in this weather. Harry had to use his lighter — his actual lighter, not a grenade — to melt the fusebox open, and yes, they were shitty old wire fuses. The box itself was huge, far larger than normal, and he realised that it must have been made for some other purpose, years ago. A delivery point? It would make sense. 

There was an old cardboard packet of fuse wire neatly tucked into the fusebox, along with wire cutters and gloves. Harry still turned off the mains, and he did the job quickly, mindful that as he stood out here, Merlin was standing at the door, letting the warm air escape, holding himself painfully upright so that he could shoot at anything that moved. 

They needed to get out of here. Merlin looked like death warmed over. 

It was only when he went to put the wire back that he realised it had been sitting on something — a dusty old shoebox, covered in spaceship-themed wrapping paper. The paper had been carefully stuck on, tape going yellow with age, the whole thing brittle and curling at the corners. Harry picked it up, and hurried back in, rejoicing inwardly when he got back to the warm air of indoors. 

They practically collapsed in the kitchen. “Good man,” said Merlin. “Didn’t know you knew how to do an old wire fuse.” 

“I can’t believe you hadn’t upgraded them.” 

“I’ve been putting it off,” said Merlin. “I’ve been doing this place myself, y’know. I don’t reckon there’s much of my past here, but I want to find it if there is.” 

Harry set the box on the table. A tiny spider scuttled off it, and Merlin looked at him quizzically. 

“Speaking of which, is this yours?” Harry asked, opening the lid. “It was in the fuse box.” 

Inside the shoebox was a collection of things, the sort of collection that a tidy child might make — an owl’s feather, some old birthday cards, several photographs with faded handwriting on the back. James Bond trading cards that Harry vaguely recalled being sold with chewing gum sometime in the mists of their childhood. 

There was something immensely sad about the shoebox, something that wrenched at Harry’s gut even as he pawed through it. Merlin smiled.

“Ah,” he said. “The only real evidence of my childhood that still exists. I remember these; I loved them. I must have hidden it in there so my dad didn’t find out how much gum I’d been buying.” He took it from Harry. “Should have got rid of this years ago; I’d forgotten it even existed.” He weighed it in his hand. “Should be able to burn it in the old fireplace.” 

“Fuck, no, _wait_ ,” said Harry, grabbing it back from him. “Don’t you even think about it.” 

“Security risk,” said Merlin. “If someone else had used this house and found it…” 

“Well, they didn’t,” said Harry. “Anyway, it’s a shoebox of shit from when you were little. None of the knights would use it against you. Even if they found out your former name, he doesn’t exist anymore.” He pulled out a photo. “Is that your Mum?” 

“Yes,” said Merlin, taking the photo. “She was beautiful, yeah?” 

“She was,” said Harry. He knew Tom’s mum had died when he was a kid, but he’d never really thought about what that meant. “Tom…I…” 

“Tom doesn’t exist any more,” said Merlin. “I really should burn this; I’m bending the rules as is by keeping this place at all.” 

“No,” said Harry. “Kingsman’s asked you to give up so much.” 

“I gave it up willingly,” said Merlin. 

“There have to have been some things about your past worth keeping,” said Harry. 

“I’m sitting with one of them,” said Merlin. “And I’d rather keep people than things.” 

It was, without exaggeration, one of the best compliments Harry’d ever received. He smiled. 

“Did you ever think we’d end up here?” 

Merlin laughed hoarsely, and then clutched his side. “No,” he said. “I wanted to be anywhere but here.” 

“Not here as in this room. Here-here.” 

“I’d hoped,” said Merlin. “But I’ve learned not to trust hope.” He put the photograph back, put the lid back on the shoebox. “Harry…” 

“I thought about it,” said Harry. “From the second I saw you after Arthur nominated me, I thought — well, this Kingsman lark will be all right, because Tom’ll be there.”

It wasn’t like they’d never fooled around — Harry had a libido to rival James Bond’s, and they’d lived together for four years, and Tom had always been good looking, and Harry had always been weak when good looking boys shyly kissed him, hoping to learn from his loucheness. But Harry had grown up a lot since then, and shy, sweet Tom McGregor had become Merlin, in the meantime, who had a much better idea of what he wanted, when he wanted it, and how to get it. 

So it wasn’t a surprise when Merlin leaned over and kissed him. He dragged Merlin closer, and Merlin dragged him closer, until Merlin had to break the kiss, breathing heavily. 

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, I — I think we’re going to have to put that on hold.” He ran trembling fingertips down Harry’s cheek. 

Harry turned his head to kiss Merlin’s fingers. “What’s our extraction plan?” 

“There’s a car in the garage; it’s got snow fins on it.” 

“Snow fins?” 

Merlin smiled wanly. “My own invention; they drop when they need to, and can be retracted on normal roads,” he said. “Like the car/boat in Bond, just better suited to snow. I’ve been waiting to see it in the field.” 

Harry realised belatedly that the gauze taped to Merlin’s side was leaking through his jumper, thick and sluggish. He swallowed. 

“All right,” he said. “Get dressed, and start warming the engine. I’ll pack.” 

He took an embarrassing amount of medical supplies, and three guns each — it wasn’t as if they could _fire_ three guns at a time, and Merlin was looking so hideous that he probably would struggle to hit a target with one gun. He packed the shoebox, despite Merlin’s protests. It was almost anticlimactic when they pulled out of the garage and into the street, Chelsea tractor teetering on Merlin’s redesigned snow system, and discovered that there was no-one waiting for them. The snow was banked so high that only specialist vehicles could get through, and that was their saviour. 

They made it onto clearer roads once they were out of the valley — the ploughs had been through, the roads gritted and scraped clean of snow. The fins retracted easily, the tyres getting grip. Everything felt much more stable now they were on the road home. 

“We’re well shot of that place,” said Merlin, as Harry used the better roads as an excuse to sneak a glance at him. He shook his head. 

“I can’t believe we got in trouble, and you took me home,” said Harry, and Merlin smiled, curled into the front passenger seat. 

“I took you to my old house. Home is more intangible than that,” he said. 

“Explain.” 

“I can’t. But you know it when you see it.” He closed his eyes. “Wake me when we get to somewhere that I can have a decent coffee.” 

“Your wish is my command,” said Harry. Merlin snorted, and took Harry’s hand, threading their fingers, making him drive one-handed. 

Harry let him. 

_____________

 

Morgana met them at the front steps of Kingsman’s manor; she wrapped Merlin in a blanket and fussed over both of them, in that slightly terrifying way she had, like the worlds scariest grandmother. Merlin, Harry knew, was earmarked as her successor, and she had every intention of getting him there. Merlin was pale and shivering by the time they got even a few steps, and he was whisked off to Medical immediately, taken away from Harry so that the wound could be examined, pus drained, whatever. 

Harry had to report in. He felt this was egregiously unfair, but needs must. He spoke to Arthur for an hour, filled in fifteen pages of check-box forms (plus one that he’d only ever idly thought he might need to file), was congratulated soundly for the success of the mission — despite the fact that Merlin had been injured — and commended for his field first-aid. 

It took hours before he could make it back down to the medical wing. Morgana was sitting in Merlin’s comfortable, well-appointed room; she’d somehow got little Merlin’s shoebox, and she was idly picking through it with one hand. She held Merlin’s hand in her other, and Harry was suddenly, achingly happy to work at Kingsman, to be here with people who fought hard, bickered like nobody’s business, but gave a shit about each other in the end. 

“That’s Tom’s, isn’t it?” he asked, just to be sure. 

“He told me to make the decision about what to destroy and what to keep,” she said. “What will or won’t compromise us.” 

“And?” asked Harry. 

“There’s nothing in here I think we should burn,” she said. “Poor Tom; everyone thinks he holds them to high standards, but they don’t see the impossible standard he tries to force upon himself. Sometimes I dread what he’ll do to himself once I retire and give him the reins.” She fixed him with her gaze. “You’ll look after him, won’t you?” 

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “How bad is it?” 

He knew it couldn’t be that bad, because they’d put Merlin in one of the suites — under observation, with a drip and a range of monitors — but not in the ICU section, where he’d be in an uncomfortable hospital bed. The suites were usually used to accommodate an agent who was injured enough to be in for the long haul; bigger beds, windows, storage, and none of that bloody white walls/white everything garbage. 

“He hasn’t got peritonitis, which was a real concern,” she said. “Lost a lot of blood, overall, and has the beginnings of a disgusting infection; he’s going to have a great big scar now that we’ve dealt with the worst of it.” She put the box aside, and Harry pulled up a seat on the opposite side of the double bed. “You two did very well, Galahad; it’s just some part of me that can’t help thinking…my poor boy.” Morgana squeezed Merlin’s hand. 

“I know,” Harry said, because he had that part to himself, too. 

“I’m surprised he told you it was his childhood home,” she said; of course she’d seen everything, they’d been in a Kingsman safe house, after all. “Ever noticed how everyone in Kingsman had shitty childhoods?” 

“I didn’t think about it,” he said. 

“You know how the organisation began?” she asked. “Second sons. Third sons. The boys who weren’t good enough to send to war, the ones who weren’t the primary inheritors of the estate, the ones who were weak, the ones who couldn’t go to the front of any line. The clever ones, whose siblings just plain didn’t like them. And the girls, who’d’ve been forgotten, otherwise, until they needed to be married off.” She chuckled. “I worked at Bletchley, during the war. I wasn’t going to go back and marry some snotty horse-teethed fool that my father wanted to make nice with. But my point stands. It’s all of us; we’re all the ones that no-one wanted, making good.” 

“You’re right,” he said; he’d never thought about it like this before. The warm pride in Kingsman he’d felt earlier was completely undiminished; if anything, it grew. “And how good we’ve made ourselves.” 

She grinned. “Exactly,” she said, pausing, and leaning toward Merlin. “Hello, my boy. How are you feeling?” 

“Like I’ve been shot,” said Merlin, blearily. “How’s Galahad?” 

“Ask him yourself; he’s right here.” 

“Harry,” said Merlin, turning his head, reaching out a hand. 

“Hi,” said Harry, wrapping Merlin’s cold fingers in his own. “Before you even start, I’ll let you know that all the paperwork is done.” 

Merlin gave him a wry look. “I must have been close to death.” 

“Not quite,” said Harry. He _had_ spent the last hours of the drive back somewhat terrified as Merlin got weaker and weaker, but he’d been reassured when he got back that Merlin was all right, and Harry believed in the Kingsman medical staff, possibly more than in any supernatural or real entity that had ever existed. 

“I feel like shit,” said Merlin. “Tell me that the labs were able to synthesise something to render that stuff from Noregard inert, and I didn’t get shot for nothing.” 

“We were,” said Morgana. “And I won the betting pool about how long it would take for you and Galahad to kiss on a mission.”

“You had an advantage,” said Merlin, closing his eyes. “And technically, we’d completed the mission.” 

“I did the fraternisation paperwork, too,” said Harry, cheerfully. 

“That was hopeful,” said Merlin. 

“You know me; I’m an optimist.” 

That got a laugh out of both techs, with the added bonus of encouraging Merlin to open his eyes again and give Harry a fond look. 

“All right,” said Morgana. “I’ll leave you two to it. Don’t stay up too late.” 

“We will,” said Merlin, and she bent to kiss his cheek.

Harry practically crept into bed with Merlin, once Morgana had gone; he was too tired to go home, Mr Pickle was still safely in the boarding kennels, and he’d filed the paperwork so technically Chester couldn’t kick him out. Plus, he had a feeling that Morgana had organised Merlin being settled in one of the larger suites so that Harry could stay over, and explore this new-forged bond. 

“So,” said Merlin, as Harry curled around him. “If you did the fraternisation paperwork, that means you’re serious, doesn’t it?” 

“Don’t tell me you aren’t,” said Harry. He felt a shard of ice in his chest, just momentarily. “All joking aside, are you serious?” 

“You wanker,” said Merlin. “I’ve been serious about you since forever.” He turned his head, so they were practically breathing each other’s air. “I thought I’d got you out of my system when we left uni and I came here, and then eight months in, there’s the new candidates for Galahad, and there’s Harry Hart and his lovely little arse in a plaid boiler suit, picking out a yorkie because he knew it would piss off David Morton.” 

Harry smiled. “He’s a bloody good dog, I’ll have you know.” He snuggled. “You think my arse is lovely.”

“Of course I do,” said Merlin. “I think all of you’s fucking lovely, don’t I?” 

“Mmm,” said Harry, only a little sad that they couldn’t get up to much more than some aggressive snuggling, and that Merlin was unlikely to be as forthcoming about his emotions when he wasn’t high on painkillers. “The feeling, I must say, is mutual.” 

_____________

 

The first time Harry came into Merlin’s office after they were both cleared for active duty, he noticed that the James Bond chewing gum cards had been stuck up on the noticeboard above the printer. It looked like Merlin’s team had been having a field day with them, because almost all of the cards had post-its on them, with the code-names of agents and handlers and targets. Merlin, predictably, was written on the post-it for Q, Desmond Llewellyn’s face over a big hand-written “MERLIN!!!”.

“You know,” said Merlin, catching him looking. “I think it’s a little too obvious to make me Q. I’d prefer to be someone else.”

“Felix Leiter,” said Harry, grinning. “Always shows up at the right moment with what Bond needs.” 

“Does that make you Bond?” asked Merlin. “And does that mean you want me to get my limbs bitten off by a shark?” 

“You’d invent yourself prosthetics that would make you the most frightening creature the world has ever seen,” said Harry, dismissively. 

“You say that as if I’m not already the most frightening creature the world has ever seen,” said Merlin. “How was your mission?” 

“Weren’t you monitoring?” 

“I was being polite.” 

Harry leaned in, then, and kissed him. He felt Merlin smile under his lips. 

“I bought you a present.” 

“What?” asked Merlin, as Harry gave him the tiny carved horse he’d bought back with him from Sweden. He examined it, clearly looking for the trick, looking for the catch. 

“Something entirely frivolous,” said Harry. “Something with no purpose other than to look pretty and catch dust.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I like you,” said Harry, putting both hands on the arms of Merlin’s desk chair, kissing him again. “Come on, close off your shift. We’ve got some very important business to attend to back at my flat.” 

“One moment, said Merlin, putting the dala horse on a shelf, next to the photo of his Mum, looking back at them from what had to be thirty years ago. “All right. Let me warn Morgana she’s on call, and we’ll go back to yours.” 

Three weeks later, when Harry returned with a new present for Merlin, he placed it on the shelf himself. Angharad, one of Merlin’s favourite techs, gave him a sideways glance. 

“I wouldn’t mess with that shelf,” she said. “That’s where he keeps all his important stuff.”

“I know,” said Harry, as Merlin appeared in the doorway, and gave him a quizzical look. His glance flashed to the second souvenir, glass from Venice, and he rolled his eyes, but smiled. 

“Angharad, can you help Galahad with his mission paperwork?” he asked. “Barring one remarkable incident when he thought I was dying, he seems to have difficulty finding the correct forms and using the computer to fill them in.”

But their sleeves brushed as Merlin and Harry passed, and Harry saw Merlin’s gaze drifting again to the shelf, and the affection in his eyes, and he knew he wasn’t in trouble. 

“My office autonomy is all right, by the way,” said Merlin. “Harry knows that the things on that shelf are mine.”

Merlin didn’t have much. Harry knew it; Merlin didn’t have any living family members, or an anchor outside the organisation. He didn’t have an offsite flat; his home was this little patch of space in Central. He didn’t even have a civilian name anymore, except when he was with Harry, or Morgana, or Arthur — the people who remembered him from before he became Merlin. Harry understood the possessiveness of the small patches that he had of what was his own. 

“I’m allowed to add to them, surely?” asked Harry. “You deserve more than what you have.” 

Unspoken: I want to give you more than what you have, even if it’s odd little souvenirs, bad frozen pizza, mornings and evenings together out from under Kingsman’s watchful eye. 

Merlin shook his head. “Only you,” he said. “I’ll — finish your paperwork quickly, will you?” 

“I will,” said Harry, squeezing his fingertips before moving on. 

He walked down the corridor with Angharad, who complained to him about paperwork (Harry’s lack of it, Merlin’s insistence on it) as soon as they got out of earshot. Harry listened, took it in, let her actually help with the paperwork, because she hadn’t heard the irony in Merlin’s voice, and didn’t realise that Merlin _wouldn’t_ kill Harry if it wasn’t done. Still, it was a leverage tool. Look, Tom, I’ve been good — let me suck your cock as a reward. 

He took the paperwork back later, finding Merlin handling the hefty Murano glass paperweight, gazing into its depths like it was a crystal ball. 

“You really don’t mind that I put it on your special shelf?” 

Merlin shook his head. “It’s not my special shelf. It’s my shelf of things that are special,” he said. “Course I don’t mind.” He replaced the paperweight, colour swirling and glittering inside a fragile shell of glass that was somehow heavy, somehow had gravity, and turned to Harry. “If you think you’re going to make this office look like the inside of your flat, though…” 

“Speaking of the inside of my flat…” Harry leaned, and Merlin met him, putting a hand on Harry’s cheek to keep him there.

“Yes, Harry, I will come home with you,” said Merlin, letting Harry help him into his coat, slyly tangling their fingers again as they made their way down to the train. 

“Home?” asked Harry, just to make sure, once the pneumatic doors had swished shut behind them. “Not my house, or my flat — _home_?” 

“Aye,” said Merlin, not letting go of his hand. “Home.”


End file.
